We go to the bottom,

below South Line Street, in the razorlight-

where the air is green dead,

where ectoplasm gathers on the shining walls,

and fires light the low lamentations,

below the bellows,

where the ghosts live who have no other home.

A cold vein runs in time

with the corner music,

on the edge where the air is heavy wet.

If you kept a dime, you can save your soul,

since at night the faultlines are easier to split

with gold and pirate ditties.

All eyes sweep the broken ground.

Between the concrete and the chassis, the air is still.

Between the rebar and the relics, the air is still.

Between the tonnage and the tenements, the air is still.

You forget how to define

when you see directions spread before you,

like the auras of fingers…

Can you tell me how to get, how to get to South Line Street?

We struggle topside after a while

from the gamut of the underrafters,

and breathe heavy.

See

the sun sinking; blood red waves.

Here the wind throws gritwater forever,

and is not quieted.